He was hopeless, therefore, as he walked about through those empty rooms, thinking of his past life and of that life which was to come. Would it not be well for him that he were dead, now that he was dying to all that had made the world pleasant? We see and hear of such men as Mr. Sowerby, and are apt to think that they enjoy all that the world can give, and that they enjoy that all without payment either in care or labour; but I doubt that, with even the most callous of them, their periods of wretchedness must be frequent, and that wretchedness very intense. Salmon and lamb in February, and green pease and new potatoes in March, can hardly make a man happy, even though nobody pays for them; and the feeling that one is an
antecedentem scelestum
after whom a sure, though lame, Nemesis is hobbling, must sometimes disturb one’s slumbers. On the present occasion Scelestus felt that his Nemesis had overtaken him. Lame as she had been, and swift as he had run, she had mouthed him at last, and there was nothing left for him but to listen to the “whoop” set up at the sight of his own death-throes.
It was a melancholy, dreary place now, that big house of Chaldicotes; and though the woods were all green with their early leaves, and the garden thick with flowers, they also were melancholy and dreary. The lawns were untrimmed and weeds were growing through the gravel, and here and there a cracked Dryad, tumbled from her pedestal and sprawling in the grass, gave a look of disorder to the whole place. The wooden trellis-work was shattered here and bending there, the standard rose-trees were stooping to the ground, and the leaves of the winter still encumbered the borders. Late in the evening of the second day Mr. Sowerby strolled out, and went through the gardens into the wood. Of all the inanimate things of the world this wood of Chaldicotes was the dearest to him. He was not a man to whom his companions gave much credit for feelings or thoughts akin to poetry, but here, out in the Chase, his mind would be almost poetical. While wandering among the forest trees, he became susceptible of the tenderness of human nature: he would listen to the birds singing, and pick here and there a wild flower on his path. He would watch the decay of the old trees and the progress of the young, and make pictures in his eyes of every turn in the wood. He would mark the colour of a bit of road as it dipped into a dell, and then, passing through a water-course, rose brown, rough, irregular, and beautiful against the bank on the other side. And then he would sit and think of his old family: how they had roamed there time out of mind in those Chaldicotes woods, father and son and grandson in regular succession, each giving them over, without blemish or decrease, to his successor. So he would sit; and so he did sit even now, and, thinking of these things, wished that he had never been born.
It was dark night when he returned to the house, and as he did so he resolved that he would quit the place altogether, and give up the battle as lost. The duke should take it and do as he pleased with it; and as for the seat in Parliament, Lord Dumbello, or any other equally gifted young patrician, might hold it for him. He would vanish from the scene and betake himself to some land from whence he would be neither heard nor seen, and there—starve. Such were now his future outlooks into the world; and yet, as regards health and all physical capacities, he knew that he was still in the prime of his life. Yes; in the prime of his life! But what could he do with what remained to him of such prime? How could he turn either his mind or his strength to such account as might now be serviceable? How could he, in his sore need, earn for himself even the barest bread? Would it not be better for him that he should die? Let not any one covet the lot of a spendthrift, even though the days of his early pease and champagne seem to be unnumbered; for that lame Nemesis will surely be up before the game has been all played out.
When Mr. Sowerby reached his house he found that a message by telegraph had arrived for him in his absence. It was from his sister, and it informed him that she would be with him that night. She was coming down by the mail-train, had telegraphed to Barchester for post-horses, and would be at Chaldicotes about two hours after midnight. It was therefore manifest enough that her business was of importance.
Exactly at two the Barchester post-chaise did arrive, and Mrs. Harold Smith, before she retired to her bed, was closeted for about an hour with her brother.
“Well,” she said, the following morning, as they sat together at the breakfast table, “what do you say to it now? If you accept her offer you should be with her lawyer this afternoon.”
“I suppose I must accept it,” said he.
“Certainly, I think so. No doubt it will take the property out of your own hands as completely as though the duke had it, but it will leave you the house, at any rate, for your life.”
“What good will the house be, when I can’t keep it up?”
“But I am not so sure of that. She will not want more than her fair interest; and as it will be thoroughly well managed, I should think that there would be something over—something enough to keep up the house. And then, you know, we must have some place in the country.”
“I tell you fairly, Harriet, that I will have nothing further to do with Harold in the way of money.”
“Ah! that was because you would go to him. Why did you not come to me? And then, Nathaniel, it is the only way in which you can have a chance of keeping the seat. She is the queerest woman I ever met, but she seems resolved on beating the duke.”
“I do not quite understand it, but I have not the slightest objection.”
“She thinks that he is interfering with young Gresham about the Crown property. I had no idea that she had so much business at her fingers’ ends. When I first proposed the matter she took it up quite as a lawyer might, and seemed to have forgotten altogether what occurred about that other matter.”
“I wish I could forget it also,” said Mr. Sowerby.
“I really think that she does. When I was obliged to make some allusion to it—at least I felt myself obliged, and was very sorry afterwards that I did—she merely laughed—a great loud laugh as she always does, and then went on about the business. However, she was clear about this, that all the expenses of the election should be added to the sum to be advanced by her, and that the house should be left to you without any rent. If you choose to take the land round the house you must pay for it, by the acre, as the tenants do. She was as clear about it all as though she had passed her life in a lawyer’s office.”
My readers will now pretty well understand what last step that excellent sister, Mrs. Harold Smith, had taken on her brother’s behalf, nor will they be surprised to learn that in the course of the day Mr. Sowerby hurried back to town and put himself into communication with Miss Dunstable’s lawyer.
CHAPTER XXXVIII
Is There Cause or Just Impediment?
I now purpose to visit another country house in Barsetshire, but on this occasion our sojourn shall be in the eastern division, in which, as in every other county in England, electioneering matters are paramount at the present moment. It has been mentioned that Mr. Gresham, junior, young Frank Gresham as he was always called, lived at a place called Boxall Hill. This property had come to his wife by will, and he was now settled there—seeing that his father still held the family seat of the Greshams at Greshamsbury.
At the present moment Miss Dunstable was staying at Boxall Hill with Mrs. Frank Gresham. They had left London, as, indeed, all the world had done, to the terrible dismay of the London tradesmen. This dissolution of Parliament was ruining everybody except the country publicans, and had of course destroyed the London season among other things.
Mrs. Harold Smith had only just managed to catch Miss Dunstable before she left London; but she did do so, and the great heiress had at once seen her lawyers, and instructed them how to act with reference to the mortgages on the Chaldicotes property. Miss Dunstable was in the habit of speaking of herself and her own pecuniary concerns as though she herself were rarely allowed to meddle in their management; but this was one of those small jokes which she ordinarily perpetrated; for in truth few ladies, and perhaps not many gentlemen, have a more thorough knowledge of their own concerns or a more potent voice in their own affairs, than was possessed by Miss Dunstable. Circumstances had lately brought her much into Barsetshire, and she had there contracted very intimate friendships. She was now disposed to become, if possible, a Barsetshire proprietor, and with this view had lately agreed with young Mr. Gresham that she would become the purchaser of the Crown property. As, however, the purchase had been commenced in his name, it was so to be continued; but now, as we are aware, it was rumoured that, after all, the duke, or, if not the duke, then the Marquis of Hartletop, was to be the future owner of the Chase. Miss Dunstable, however, was not a person to give up her object if she could attain it, nor, under the circumstances, was she at all displeased at finding herself endowed with the power of rescuing the Sowerby portion of the Chaldicotes property from the duke’s clutches. Why had the duke meddled with her or with her friend, as to the other property? Therefore it was arranged that the full amount due to the duke on mortgage should be ready for immediate payment; but it was arranged also that the security as held by Miss Dunstable should be very valid.
Miss Dunstable, at Boxall Hill or at Greshamsbury, was a very different person from Miss Dunstable in London; and it was this difference which so much vexed Mrs. Gresham; not that her friend omitted to bring with her into the country her London wit and aptitude for fun, but that she did not take with her up to town the genuine goodness and love of honesty which made her lovable in the country. She was, as it were, two persons, and Mrs. Gresham could not understand that any lady should permit herself to be more worldly at one time of the year than at another—or in one place than in any other.
“Well, my dear, I am heartily glad we’ve done with that,” Miss Dunstable said to her, as she sat herself down to her desk in the drawing-room on the first morning after her arrival at Boxall Hill.
“What does ‘that’ mean?” said Mrs. Gresham.
“Why, London and smoke and late hours, and standing on one’s legs for four hours at a stretch on the top of one’s own staircase, to be bowed at by any one who chooses to come. That’s all done—for one year, at any rate.”
“You know you like it.”
“No, Mary; that’s just what I don’t know. I don’t know whether I like it or not. Sometimes, when the spirit of that dearest of all women, Mrs. Harold Smith, is upon me, I think that I do like it; but then, again, when other spirits are on me, I think that I don’t.”
“And who are the owners of the other spirits?”
“Oh, you are one, of course. But you are a weak little thing, by no means able to contend with such a Samson as Mrs. Harold. And then you are a little given to wickedness yourself, you know. You’ve learned to like London well enough since you sat down to the table of Dives. Your uncle—he’s the real, impracticable, unapproachable Lazarus who declares that he can’t come down because of the big gulf. I wonder how he’d behave, if somebody left him ten thousand a year?”
“Uncommonly well, I am sure.”
“Oh, yes; he is a Lazarus now, so of course we are bound to speak well of him; but I should like to see him tried. I don’t doubt but what he’d have a house in Belgrave Square, and become noted for his little dinners before the first year of his trial was over.”
“Well, and why not? You would not wish him to be an anchorite?”
“I am told that he is going to try his luck—not with ten thousand a year, but with one or two.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jane tells me that they all say at Greshamsbury that he is going to marry Lady Scatcherd.” Now Lady Scatcherd was a widow living in those parts; an excellent woman, but one not formed by nature to grace society of the highest order.
“What!” exclaimed Mrs. Gresham, rising up from her chair, while her eyes flashed with anger at such a rumour.
“Well, my dear, don’t eat me. I don’t say it is so; I only say that Jane said so.”
“Then you ought to send Jane out of the house.”
“You may be sure of this, my dear: Jane would not have told me if somebody had not told her.”
“And you believed it?”
“I have said nothing about that.”
“But you look as if you had believed it.”
“Do I? Let us see what sort of a look it is, this look of faith.” And Miss Dunstable got up and went to the glass over the fireplace. “But, Mary, my dear, ain’t you old enough to know that you should not credit people’s looks? You should believe nothing nowadays; and I did not believe the story about poor Lady Scatcherd. I know the doctor well enough to be sure that he is not a marrying man.”
“What a nasty, hackneyed, false phrase that is—that of a marrying man! It sounds as though some men were in the habit of getting married three or four times a month.”
“It means a great deal all the same. One can tell very soon whether a man is likely to marry or no.”
“And can one tell the same of a woman?”
“The thing is so different. All unmarried women are necessarily in the market; but if they behave themselves properly they make no signs. Now there was Griselda Grantly; of course she intended to get herself a husband, and a very grand one she has got: but she always looked as though butter would not melt in her mouth. It would have been very wrong to call her a marrying girl.”
“Oh, of course she was,” says Mrs. Gresham, with that sort of acrimony which one pretty young woman so frequently expresses with reference to another. “But if one could always tell of a woman, as you say you can of a man, I should be able to tell of you. Now, I wonder whether you are a marrying woman? I have never been able to make up my mind yet.”
Miss Dunstable remained silent for a few moments, as though she were at first minded to take the question as being, in some sort, one made in earnest; but then she attempted to laugh it off. “Well, I wonder at that,” said she, “as it was only the other day I told you how many offers I had refused.”
“Yes; but you did not tell me whether any had been made that you meant to accept.”
“None such was ever made to me. Talking of that, I shall never forget your cousin, the Honourable George.”
“He is not my cousin.”
“Well, your husband’s. It would not be fair to show a man’s letters; but I should like to show you his.”
“You are determined, then, to remain single?”
“I didn’t say that. But why do you cross-question me so?”
“Because I think so much about you. I am afraid that you will become so afraid of men’s motives as to doubt that any one can be honest. And yet sometimes I think you would be a happier woman and a better woman, if you were married.”
“To such an one as the Honourable George, for instance?”
“No, not to such an one as him; you have probably picked out the worst.”
“Or to Mr. Sowerby?”
“Well, no; not to Mr. Sowerby, either. I would not have you marry any man that looked to you for your money principally.”
“And how is it possible that I should expect any one to look to me principally for anything else? You don’t see my difficulty, my dear? If I had only five hundred a year, I might come across some decent middle-aged personage, like myself, who would like me, myself, pretty well, and would like my little income—pretty well also. He would not tell me any violent lie, and perhaps no lie at all. I should take to him in the same sort of way, and we might do very well. But, as it is, how is it possible that any disinterested person should learn to like me? How could such a man set about it? If a sheep have two heads, is not the fact of the two heads the first and, indeed, only thing which the world regards in that sheep? Must it not be so as a matter of course? I am a sheep with two heads. All this money which my father put together, and which has been growing since like grass under May showers, has turned me into an abortion. I am not the giantess eight feet high, or the dwarf that stands in the man’s hand—”
“Or the two-headed sheep—”
“But I am the unmarried woman with—half-a-dozen millions of money—as I believe some people think. Under such circumstances have I a fair chance of getting my own sweet bit of grass to nibble, like any ordinary animal with one head? I never was very beautiful, and I am not more so now than I was fifteen years ago.”
“I am quite sure it is not that which hinders it. You would not call yourself plain; and even plain women are married every day, and are loved too, as well as pretty women.”
“Are they? Well, we won’t say more about that; but I don’t expect a great many lovers on account of my beauty. If ever you hear of such an one, mind you tell me.”
It was almost on Mrs. Gresham’s tongue to say that she did know of one such—meaning her uncle. But in truth, she did not know any such thing; nor could she boast to herself that she had good grounds for feeling that it was so—certainly none sufficient to justify her in speaking of it. Her uncle had said no word to her on the matter, and had been confused and embarrassed when the idea of such a marriage was hinted to him. But, nevertheless, Mrs. Gresham did think that each of these two was well inclined to love the other, and that they would be happier together than they would be single. The difficulty, however, was very great, for the doctor would be terribly afraid of being thought covetous in regard to Miss Dunstable’s money; and it would hardly be expected that she should be induced to make the first overture to the doctor.
“My uncle would be the only man that I can think of that would be at all fit for you,” said Mrs. Gresham, boldly.
“What, and rob poor Lady Scatcherd!” said Miss Dunstable.
“Oh, very well. If you choose to make a joke of his name in that way I have done.”
“Why, God bless the girl, what does she want me to say? And as for joking, surely that is innocent enough. You’re as tender about the doctor as though he were a girl of seventeen.”
“It’s not about him; but it’s such a shame to laugh at poor dear Lady Scatcherd. If she were to hear it she’d lose all comfort in having my uncle near her.”
“And I’m to marry him, so that she may be safe with her friend!”
“Very well; I have done.” And Mrs. Gresham, who had already got up from her seat, employed herself very sedulously in arranging flowers which had been brought in for the drawing-room tables. Thus they remained silent for a minute or two, during which she began to reflect that, after all, it might probably be thought that she also was endeavouring to catch the great heiress for her uncle.
“And now you are angry with me,” said Miss Dunstable.
“No, I am not.”
“Oh, but you are. Do you think I’m such a fool as not to see when a person’s vexed? You wouldn’t have twitched that geranium’s head off if you’d been in a proper frame of mind.”
“I don’t like that joke about Lady Scatcherd.”
“And is that all, Mary? Now do try and be true, it you can. You remember the bishop?
Magna est veritas.
”
“The fact is you’ve got into such a way of being sharp, and saying sharp things among your friends up in London, that you can hardly answer a person without it.”
“Can’t I! Dear, dear, what a Mentor you are, Mary! No poor lad that ever ran up from Oxford for a spree in town got so lectured for his dissipation and iniquities as I do. Well, I beg Dr. Thorne’s pardon, and Lady Scatcherd’s, and I won’t be sharp any more; and I will—let me see, what was it I was to do? Marry him myself, I believe; was not that it?”
“No; you’re not half good enough for him.”
“I know that. I’m quite sure of that. Though I am so sharp, I’m very humble. You can’t accuse me of putting any very great value on myself.”
“Perhaps not as much as you ought to do—on yourself.”
“Now what do you mean, Mary? I won’t be bullied and teased, and have innuendoes thrown out at me, because you’ve got something on your mind, and don’t quite dare to speak it out. If you have got anything to say, say it.”
But Mrs. Gresham did not choose to say it at that moment. She held her peace, and went on arranging her flowers—now with a more satisfied air, and without destruction to the geraniums. And when she had grouped her bunches properly she carried the jar from one part of the room to another, backwards and forwards, trying the effect of the colours, as though her mind was quite intent upon her flowers, and was for the moment wholly unoccupied with any other subject.
But Miss Dunstable was not the woman to put up with this. She sat silent in her place, while her friend made one or two turns about the room; and then she got up from her seat also. “Mary,” she said, “give over about those wretched bits of green branches, and leave the jars where they are. You’re trying to fidget me into a passion.”
“Am I?” said Mrs. Gresham, standing opposite to a big bowl, and putting her head a little on one side, as though she could better look at her handiwork in that position.